


Doubtless

by burning_brightly



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Scott has a plan, did i mention there's chocolate, food-related shameless smut, haircut problems, i'll let you guess how well that goes for him, nothing that strawberries can't solve, will lead to blushing in the produce section
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-16 12:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15436716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burning_brightly/pseuds/burning_brightly
Summary: If Tessa doesn't like his hair, that's fine. That's absolutely fine. He's got a Plan to deal with that little problem. One that involves chocolate sauce, and strawberries, and a hell of a lot of self-control.(in which Scott protests what he views as a somewhat unreasonable reaction to his choice of hairstyle, via creative use of summer fruits)





	1. sunset and evening star

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Blow Up Your Phone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15287217) by [Golden_Ticket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Golden_Ticket/pseuds/Golden_Ticket). 



> First of all, thank you all very much for your lovely reaction to "Kingfisher"! It was positively heartwarming. 
> 
> This is...somewhat in the same vein. I have (with permission) borrowed Golden_Ticket's delightful premise in the first chapter of "Blow Up Your Phone," in which Scott gets a haircut and Tessa's reaction is less than ideal. The original chapter had them smooth this dispute over fairly quickly - I have chosen to let it fester just a bit, for Reasons. (By the way, if you have _not_ read "Blow Up Your Phone," I suggest you do so in order to have the proper background for this fic.)
> 
> Please enjoy Scott being slightly petty and head-over-heels in love, Tessa looking very hot in Shape of You blue, and various fruit-and-chocolate-related shenanigans. 
> 
> The fic title is somewhat esoteric - taken from Izaak Walton's _The Compleat Angler_ , which is a seventeenth-century book primarily about the joys of recreational fishing. In it, Walton quotes a gentleman he identifies as Dr. Boteler, who apparently said about strawberries, "Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did." 
> 
> I'll leave you to read into that whatever you wish, given the fact that this is shameless smut involving our two favourite Canadian ice dancers and that strawberries have long been regarded as a symbol of Venus, the goddess of love. 
> 
> Chapter title is taken from one of my very favourite poets, Alfred, Lord Tennyson. "Crossing of the Bar," first stanza: 
> 
> "Sunset and evening star,  
> And one clear call for me!"
> 
> ~M

Scott stands in the fruit section of the grocery store, absently shifting a jar of chocolate sauce from one hand to the other while he ponders the selection of strawberries. He wants them to be  _ perfect _ , ripe and succulent and red, a sharp contrast to what he’s picturing in his mind’s eye - creamy skin and dark hair, spread out like a seven-course meal. In his basket, there’s already a can of whipped cream and a bottle of wine (white, because he can think ahead, thank you very much, and he doesn’t dare stain Kate’s good linen sheets). Now he just needs the berries, the gourmet dark chocolate sauce in his hand, because Tessa will appreciate the good stuff, and a couple of nearly overripe peaches. 

He’s got his eye on a promising-looking carton when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

\--Where are you? My mother is gone, I’m in the babydoll, and I’m waiting.

Well, then. Suddenly his jeans feel alarmingly tight. He shifts his eyes to the only other occupant of the produce section, an elderly gentleman poring with great dedication over the zucchini, and texts back with one thumb, hurriedly.

\--i’m at the metro getting supplies

His phone buzzes again within seconds.

\--You don’t  _ need  _ supplies. Just come on. Hurry up.

He raises an eyebrow. She’s been bossy today.  _ Very  _ bossy. And, come to think, a little mean. He ruffles through his freshly-shorn hair with his free hand and grimaces. He knows he was a little dramatic earlier, but it  _ did  _ sting a bit to find out that the love of his life hates his haircut. Even if she did take it back later.

After taking brief mental inventory, he decides that he is a) aroused - very aroused, if he’s being honest, because the image of Tess in that fucking babydoll is extremely fresh on his mind from hours before, b) feeling an intense desire to get out of the damned Metro and on the road, and c) still a little miffed. Although, as he mulls over exactly  _ how _ snippy she’d been about his hair, C is starting to grow rather more important by the moment.

She can just  _ wait _ for a minute, then. He’s picking strawberries. The  _ perfect _ strawberries. For her. And all of a sudden, he becomes possessed of a plan. It’s not exactly his best plan ever, but he’s working on the spur of the moment here, and he’s still a little ticked off from earlier, and it’ll just have to work out on the fly.

The details of the plan are hazy, but the motivation is decidedly not. It’s  _ his _ hair, dammit, and it doesn’t look that bad (he’s gotten three compliments on it already today, not counting his mother), and he would absolutely love  _ her _ hair no matter what she did to it. Although he did beg her that one time to not go blonde ever again because it screws with his brain. She doesn’t look like Tessa anymore when she’s blonde.

Other than that, though, he would not give a damn about her hair because he loves  _ her _ . All of her. And he rather expected a similar consideration from her, and got nothing but insults in return. Not to mention making his presence in her bed conditional on a picture of him in suspenders.  _ Suspenders _ . From 2014.

He glares at his phone.

\--you’re gonna have to be patient, T

And then he stuffs his phone back in his pocket and deliberately takes a good five minutes sniffing every single peach on the display even though he finds the best ones in two minutes flat.

He checks out, deliberately blocking out all images of Tess in that blue babydoll...Tessa, spread out on the couch like some sort of Greek goddess, all pale limbs and red mouth. Tessa, sitting on the kitchen counter, knees apart, leaning back on her hands, chin raised defiantly. (At the moment he doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s her sass, her toughness, that turns him on the most. Always has.) Tessa, lying on her stomach in bed, one elbow propped up, looking at him over her shoulder with that glint in her eye that means trouble.

Sweet Jesus, but the checkout line has never taken longer.

He’s out at his truck, his bag of groceries in one hand, when he feels the insistent buzzing in his pocket. He pulls out his phone, looks at Tessa’s picture, and deliberately presses “End.” It’s petty, and small, and he ought to be ashamed of himself. He IS a little ashamed of himself, really, although he knows damned well that it’s not an emergency. They have a code for that.

But he knows that if he actually speaks to her, he won’t be able to keep this head of steam he’s built up. She’ll coo something in that husky little voice she gets when she’s seducing him, and he’ll melt into a puddle of helpless lust, and by the time he gets over to the cottage, he won’t even remember what his own last name is anymore, let alone what he was planning to do to exact revenge on her for being snippy about his hair. (Among other things.)

So he texts her instead.

\--leaving now, can’t talk and drive. see you soon

This is categorically untrue, and they both know it. He talks and drives all the time, mostly with his earpiece in that he thinks is stupid because it makes him look like a sleazy salesman or something. Nevertheless, it’s sent already, and he’s determined. Therefore, he climbs in, cranks up his favourite country station, and sets off.

He needs something to distract him from the thought of what’s waiting on the other end of the drive.

* * *

 

When he pulls up at the cottage, there’s a dim light shining in the living room window and another in what he figures is the bedroom, but otherwise the house is dark. He grabs his sack of supplies and heads up the walk, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He has a Plan, he reminds himself firmly. A Plan that requires strategic, clear-headed thinking, and that does  _ not _ involve allowing himself to lose his mind the first second he touches her. No matter how badly he may want to.

He lets himself in with the key Kate gave him two years ago, and braces himself.

The cottage is silent and still, save for the candle burning on a side table and the hint of vanilla and strawberries in the air. He knows she’s here, because he could see her car in the drive when he pulled up, and presumably she wouldn’t wander around in her babydoll for the entire lakefront to see. But, as he wanders the length and breadth of the house, she’s nowhere to be found.

“Tess?” he calls finally, setting the groceries on the dining room table and looking around. That’s when he sees it, the faint flutter of blue and a hint of flame from outside. The deck.

He opens the back door and peers out, and sure enough, there she is. She’s curled up on her side, one hand under her cheek, eyes closed, one of the light cotton blankets Kate keeps out pulled up over her shoulders to keep out the breeze. He can’t tell if she’s asleep or just resting, but either way, the sight floods him with a wave of memories. Tessa, sleeping on buses and planes and in the back of his mother’s car curled up against that ridiculous Marvin the Martian body pillow. Asleep next to him in a cramped room in the athletes’ village at Sochi, silver tainting his mouth as he stared at the unyielding curve of her back. Asleep the first morning he woke up in her bed in Montréal, watching the rising sun gild her lashes and the tendrils of hair wisping around her face, wondering how in the hell he ever got to be this lucky.

Fuck it. This was not in the Plan. This was not in the Plan _at_ _all_. 

He shifts forward, thinking, and her eyes pop open. For a second that’s all he sees, dark endless pools of green, and he just blinks at her. She blinds him sometimes, even here in the darkness she blinds him. It’s like she has gold running through her veins, incandescent, translucent, shimmering, and she’s so bright, so bright it hurts.

She smiles, slow and sleepy, and shifts one hand out from under the blanket, holds it out to him.

“Hi,” she says, her voice low and husky with sleep, and he swallows hard. Fuck it, he loves her voice like that. It does things to him.

“Hi,” he says, trying very hard to not sound breathless. He’s not entirely sure he’s successful, but he sure as hell tried.

She crooks a finger at him, beckoning him closer.

“You’re here,” she says, very soft and pleased. “You took forever.”

He sits down beside her and takes her hand, runs his thumb over her knuckles. The skin is softer now, not as chapped as it is during training season, during tour. It hits him all over again that they’re never going to have a training season again. (That keeps happening, and it throws him for a loop every damn time.) He tightens his fingers around hers, leans down to brush his lips over her cheek to balance himself. He’s done that for a long, long time, has always known that the touch of her skin to his will ground him in a way nothing else can.  

“Missed you,” she whispers, and something twists in his chest, a familiar sweet ache. However long they have left in this life together, he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of hearing her say that.

“Missed you too,” he murmurs, and brushes back her hair with his free hand, rubs the soft strands between his fingers. She’s here, and she missed him, and the damned Plan can just go on hold for five minutes or so.

“What took you so long?” she murmurs, and he feels her hand around his neck, slipping into his hair. Not good, the rational side of his brain warns. Once she starts playing with his hair, he’s toast. Distract her, yes, that’s it. Distract her.

“I had to pick up supplies,” he says very mysteriously, neatly detaching her wandering hand from his hair and pressing a kiss to the back.

She hums and shifts under her blanket. 

“What kind of supplies?” she asks, a hint of suspicion in her voice, and he grins at her.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he says, and tugs at the edge of the blanket under her chin. “Now what about this babydoll you kept telling me about, huh? I need to see this. Evaluate it for myself.”

One of her eyebrows quirks, but he can see the mischief hiding in the corner of her mouth. She stretches, arms lifting above the blanket as it rides down her chest, and his breath hitches a little at the sapphire blue straps drawing stark lines against the pale skin of her shoulders.

“So...you want to evaluate it, hmm?” she says, smiling a little, and then she pushes the corner of the blanket into his hand. “Go ahead.”

He doesn’t waste any time, tugs the blanket off and lets it drop to the deck without any regard whatsoever for Kate’s careful laundering. Holy  _ shit _ .

For a second he can’t breathe or move or think, because Christ, she’s so fucking beautiful lying there, better than anything he dreamed up from her texts or standing in the damned grocery store. She’s everything he’s ever wanted from the time he was fifteen years old, and there are still moments when he isn’t entirely sure that this is  _ real _ . Sometimes he’s absolutely sure that this is all a very vivid fever dream his teenage self came up with in one of his wilder moments, and that reality will come crashing back in at any second.

But even his fifteen-old-self, sex-obsessed as he had been, surely couldn’t have dreamed up  _ this _ . Tessa, looking positively delighted with herself, decked out in nothing more than a slip of sheer blue and what looked like a  _ very _ tiny pair of blue underwear. It’s low-cut, the top of it showing off her cleavage, and that alone would be enough to have him at full attention. (Tessa has never thought she’s sufficiently large-chested, a belief that he has done his dead-level best to challenge at all times. Often with helpful demonstrations. He thinks it’s an important subject that deserves thorough consideration.)

It’s not just low-cut. The damned lingerie is also sheer as all hell, just enough to the material to tease, but even in the low light of the candles on the deck railing, he can pick out Tessa’s curves, slim and supple under the fabric. And there, at the apex of her thighs, there’s a tiny triangle of blue material, held on by what look suspiciously like thin strings on either side. Fuck him, she’s wearing a thong, and she  _ knows _ \- she knows full well - what that does to him. He has an obsession with her ass, and when she wears a thong...Jesus God.

“Well?” she says. He’s not entirely sure how much time has passed, honestly. All he’s aware of at this point is that he’s painfully hard, and she’s staring at him, trying not to laugh, and most of his blood is no longer in his brain. It’s not a great combination.

“Ummm….” he says, very articulately, and she’s giggling now, one hand at her mouth to hide her smile. “ _ Fuck _ , Tess. I just….holy fuck.”

She laughs aloud, that light pealing laugh that only comes when she’s very happy.

“That’s what I hoped you’d say,” she says, very smug, and the two brain cells that are still working start setting off alarm bells. Smug is not good. Smug is  _ definitely _ not good.  _ He’s  _ the one who ought to be smug.

He hauls in a deep breath, because he thinks he may be a little starved for oxygen since she drove all the air out of his lungs, and gets his thoughts in order. The Plan. Right. Mustn’t forget the Plan.

He strides forward, which is difficult when he’s this hard, and lunges at her, scooping her up in his arms in a princess lift before she has time to react. She squeaks a bit in surprise, and then laughs again and nuzzles into his shoulder.

“I take it that’s a good sign,” she says, teasing, and then she leans up and nips lightly at his neck, right under his jawline.

He nearly drops her.

“For fuck’s sake, don’t  _ do _ that, Tess,” he pants, clenching his jaw hard to keep from doing what his body really wants, which is to lay her down on the deck, sand and all, rip the babydoll off her, and bury himself in her without further ado. And that would ruin  _ everything _ .

“I’m so very sorry,” she says, barely restraining more laughter, and the words remind him afresh of the Plan, which he needs to damn well hurry up and execute before he loses his willpower and every single brain cell he possesses. Sorry. Yes. She’s going to be sorry, before the night’s over. She’s going to be  _ very _ sorry.

He keeps that thought front and centre as he lets them in through the back door and strides firmly down the hallway to the back bedroom. She loops both arms around his neck, for balance and presumably out of some measure of affection, and rests her forehead against his cheek.

“Where are we going?” she murmurs, and he huffs as he turns to maneuver them through the doorway so he doesn’t bang her legs against the door frame.

“I’m taking you to bed,” he says coolly. “And then you’re going to stay there while I go get my supplies. Just so we’re clear.”

He doesn’t even have to turn his head to know that she’s raised both eyebrows in that patented ‘I beg your pardon’ expression of hers.

“Oh, really?” she says, and then they’re at the bed and he sets her down, stands there and looks at her, dark hair tumbling over the coverlet.

“Yes, really,” he says, fighting the urge to just kiss her already and forget about this nonsense. “Although it would be helpful if you’d take the coverlet off while I’m gone. But otherwise, don’t you dare get up.”

She smirks at him under those still-raised eyebrows, a cocky smirk that says she’s far too confident for her own good.

“You’re feeling your oats tonight.”

He gives her a deadpan expression.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet, Virtue,” he says in his best imitation of an American Western, and then saunters out into the hallway feeling rather proud of himself and rather ridiculous all at the same time. He can hear her snickering halfway down the hall.

Oh, she has  _no_ idea.


	2. almost unbidden to my tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to give her what she asks for. He really does. 
> 
> But she can't always have everything her own way, and this is as good a time as any to remind her of it. 
> 
> (in which we have the somewhat predictable conclusion to the saga of pouting Scott, the insulted haircut, and creative uses for summer fruit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. It seem that y'all like angst with your smut, if your reaction to the "hallelujah" fic is indicative of a preference. Thank you for your lovely notes on this fic, and that one, by the way. They are a most delightful reward for the work put in - you are splendid readers, all of you!
> 
> This, I am sorry to say, is not angsty. It is very NSFW. It may make you blush in the produce section. It is rather long. But it's really just smut and fluff. However, it is long overdue for an update, so...here, have approximately 6K of S teasing her with various foods until he gets his way (because sometimes he's an adorably petty arse of a human, let's face it). 
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Blackberry Eating," by Galway Kinnell. 
> 
> "...and as I stand among them  
> lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries  
> fall almost unbidden to my tongue,  
> as words sometimes do..."
> 
> Hope you enjoy. :)

When he gets back, supplies in hand, she’s splayed out on the bed artistically. The blankets and top sheet have been folded neatly at the foot and the coverlet folded and placed on the chair in the corner. The part of him that isn’t going dizzy at the sight of her finds it funny - Tessa Virtue really may be the only woman he knows who neatly folds back the bedclothes before indulging in a bout of wildly illicit sex. He finds it irrationally adorable.

“Hi again,” she says, grinning. She’s rolled over to her side, the filmy blue material showing off every line of her, and he’s fighting to breathe once more. Jesus, but that blue looks beautiful on her. Reminds him a little of doing Shape of You on tour, and no...no, that was _not_ a good thought under the circumstances. Remembering running his hands over her body in front of God, their mothers, and half of Canada, remembering the way she circled her hips into his front as she danced, the damned come-hither look in her eye... _definitely_ not a good idea.

He bites the inside of his cheek and struggles to re-focus.

“Turn over on your stomach,” he says, and his voice sounds hoarse even to his own ears. She looks at him, a little puzzled and mostly calculating, and then seems to decide that she’ll play along. She rolls over, folds her arms and rests her head on them.

“All right,” she says, a little muffled. “What now?”

He tears his eyes off the curve of her ass, highlighted by nothing more than a bold line of blue string, and clears his throat.

“Now I need you to stay still,” he says. He kicks off his shoes hastily, tugs his shirt over his head, and shucks off his shorts. Less chance of anything getting irreparably stained that way, for one thing. (Maybe Tessa’s rubbing off on him a little, he thinks.)

“What’s in the bag?” she says, although he notices that she’s looking him up and down with considerable interest.

“Never you mind,” he says. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

She rolls her eyes.

“You’re very mysterious tonight,” she huffs into her forearms.

“Uh-huh. Shhhh,” he says, and digs out the jar of chocolate sauce. _Perfect_.

“Be very still, T, I don’t want this going everywhere,” he says, and sits down on the edge of the bed, uncapping the jar slowly. She tries to crane her head to see what he’s got, and very gently he pushes her back down. “Quit trying to peek, Tess.”

“But I - ” she starts to argue, and then he reaches over and skims his hand up her back, slow, steady, calloused fingertips dragging along the soft skin. She shuts up immediately, sighs into her forearms at his touch.

“Shhhh,” he whispers as he reaches her neck and sweeps her hair out of the way. Reverent as a sinner at the altar, he leans down and brushes a kiss right above the hem of the material, just along her spine. She lets out an inarticulate noise, and he can’t stop the self-satisfied smile from forming. This is going _very_ well indeed.

He dots kisses all the way up her spine, over the wings of her shoulder blades and the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, until she’s boneless and sighing under his hands. Then, and only then, does he dip a finger into the jar of chocolate and smear the first stripe of it onto her back.

She stiffens under him in surprise.

“What in the - ” she says, and he stretches up to kiss her cheek.

“Trust me, T,” he murmurs into her ear. “It’s good, I promise. Just trust me.”

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye and nods.

“Okay,” she says after a moment. “Go ahead.”

He kisses her shoulder as a thank you and turns his attention to the dark stripe marring the smooth expanse of her back. Slowly, he braces his hands on either side of her waist, leans down, and slides his tongue over the spot.

Fucking hell, but this was _definitely_ one of his better ideas. The chocolate is damned good (he’s always been partial to dark chocolate, anyway), but the chocolate and Tessa combined is just pure heaven, right there on his tongue. He licks again, longer and more thorough, glories in the feel of her muscles tensing under his tongue, and then she _moans_. It’s quiet, and he can tell she’s trying to hide it in her arms, but she goddamn well moaned from just his mouth on her back. This is going to be _good_.

“What do you think?” he murmurs, and cleans up the last smear of chocolate.

“Mmmphhh,” she says. “Yeahhh. Do it some more.”

Scott suppresses the urge to do a victory dance, not least because he’s so hard at this point that dancing does not sound particularly appealing, and curves his fingers into the fabric of her babydoll, tugging gently.

“I fucking love this, T, but now is probably a good time to take it off. Unless you want chocolate all over it.”

She turns her head, her eyes wide.

“Ohh, _that’s_ what that was,” she says, and smiles hazily. “There’s a zipper on the side. For easy removal.”

He fights the urge to snicker. Only Tessa would refer to him taking off her lingerie as “easy removal.”

She reaches for the zipper, apparently ready to take it off herself, and he reaches for her fingers.

“Let me, Tess,” he says, low and heated, and her hand falls back to the bed. Carefully, he takes the tiny zipper and draws it down. The hiss of the teeth parting sounds loud in the sudden heavy silence that has fallen between them, and when he parts the material with his hands, draws the thin strap over her shoulder, the air is charged with electricity, dangerous as white lightning.

He pulls it down slowly, so slowly, revealing inch after inch of marble flesh, his heart pounding in his ribcage, thudding in his ears, choking the air out of him with its drumbeat. When he slides it over her hips, he finally surrenders, just a little, lets his thumbs graze her skin all the way down her outer thighs. The little whine he hears from the head of the bed makes his weakness well worth it.

“Jesus, Tess, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers when she’s bare but for the thong. She’s so perfect, and she _trusts_ him, fucking trusts him to do anything he wants with her because she knows him. Believes in him. It’s arousing as all hell, but it also makes him shake a little with the weight of it, the fact that she doesn’t even have to see what he’s doing to let him take her where he wills. For every terrifying lift they’ve ever tried (and God knows they’ve tried plenty in their day), this is more. So much more.

“You good, T?” he asks, running his hand up her calf. It’s a grounding move, and she knows it.

“Yeah,” she says, peers down at him from the crook of her elbow. “Don’t stop now.”

He can’t stop the smile from spreading.

“Okay. But no looking.”

Her lips twitch.

“All right, fine, no looking.”

All her amusement vanishes the second he spreads chocolate high on the back of her thigh, almost to the point where her leg creases into her ass.

“Ohhhh,” she whispers, and he licks chocolate off his finger, which gives him...ideas for the next application.

“Be quiet and let me concentrate here,” he mutters, kissing her ankle, the back of her knee, and she shifts restlessly under him like she’s already wanting to move. “Shhh, still, Tess.”

She obeys, but when he gets to the chocolate, swirls his tongue over it, she whimpers.

“Oh _God_ ,” she pants, and that nearly has him done for. He’s so hard it fucking hurts.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, and ups the ante by reaching up and grasping her ass with both hands, runs his thumbs over the perfection of it, all that muscle so very powerful (and all of it his).

She actually arches her hips off the bed.

“Fuck,” she mutters, and then snaps, “don’t stop, don’t you _dare_ stop.”

“If you say so, T,” he says with as much sass as he can muster while he’s thinking about taking her from behind, and applies himself once again to his task. By the time he’s finished, she’s practically writhing.

“Turn over, babe,” he says after one last lick, long and slow, edging towards her inner thigh where she’s sensitive as all hell. He’s aching now, has been for he can’t remember how long.

When she rolls over, he could come from just the sight of her, flushed all over, rose staining her cheeks and neck, blooming across her breasts and down over her sternum. She’s breathing hard, and her eyes - oh _fuck_ , her eyes, so dilated that they’re nearly black, just a thin rim of green around the pupils.

“Tessa,” he hisses, and she lets her legs fall open, stares at him with those wild onyx eyes. He bites down hard on his back teeth, rocks forward onto his hands. “Christ.”

Her eyes slam shut at the sound of his voice.

“Do something,” she whispers. “ _Please_. Baby.”

It’s the ‘baby’ that gets him.

“I will, I swear,” he grits out, desperately, and he reaches up to cup one breast in the palm of his hand, tries to ignore the way her hips shift at the sensation. “Be still, babe, be still and I’ll make it good for you, I promise.”

She holds herself still, every muscle tensed, as he swirls chocolate onto his finger and touches it to her nipple. Her ragged gasp tears through him.

“You want some?” he asks, and her hooded eyes open fully when she sees he’s holding up his index finger.

“Yeah,” she says, strained, and opens her mouth. Oh _fuck_ , fucking hell, this was a _terrible_ idea, because now all he can think of is her pretty mouth around him, taking him in, and he can’t remember how to breathe. Then her lips close around him to the knuckle, her tongue swirling around the pad of his finger, and something harsh rips out of his mouth, a nonsensical mixture of curses and random syllables. He yanks his hand back sharply.

“God, _Tessa_ ,” he hisses, and she smiles wickedly and darts her tongue out to swipe a bit of chocolate off her lower lip.

“You’d better get to work,” she says, gesturing to her chest, although he notes with satisfaction that her voice is a bit gravelly. At least he’s not the only one painfully turned on right now.

“Be careful what you ask for, T,” he says in an attempt at being cocky, and bends his head to do exactly as she said.

If he was at all worried about keeping the upper hand, his concerns fly away into the ether the second his lips touch her skin. When he sucks her nipple into his mouth, she curses, loudly and freely, and suddenly he can feel her nails digging into his forearm, four sharp dots of pain that spur him on like the cut of a whip.

“Jesus, Scott, don’t stop, oh _God_ , don’t stop,” she moans, and then he scrapes his teeth over her and her back snaps up, arching in a perfect curve.

“Touch me, touch me _now_ ,” she hisses between her teeth, and then she’s grabbing one of his hands and trying to bring it down between her thighs. He backs away from her as if he’s been burned.

“What are you doing, Tessa?” he says, an accusing note in his voice. She stares at him, blinking fast, looking more than a little dazed.

“What do you mean?” she breathes. “Why’d you stop? I don’t…”

She looks so damn beautiful, lying there in nothing but that very tiny thong, and he’s tempted - oh, he’s so tempted. He wants to abandon the Plan, forget everything, rip her underwear off with his teeth and go fucking insane with her, and clearly she’d like that too. But dammit, if he gives her this one, he’s lost all willpower forever, and that’s just untenable.

“I _told_ you,” he says, very thickly. “Patience.”

Her eyes fly open wide.

“Patience?!” she snaps. “Jesus God, Scott, I want you in me. Now. I don’t feel like being - ”

He cuts her off by sliding his hand between her legs and stroking, once, over her underwear. Which is a terrible, awful mistake, because she’s soaking wet and whimpers at his touch, and now he can’t think. Again.

“Trust me, baby, it’ll be worth it,” he whispers, and that’s when he notices her hand sneaking towards his boxer-briefs. _Oh_ no. No, no, no.

“Stop that right now,” he says, firmly, wraps his fingers around her wrist and lifts her arm over her head. She sucks in a sharp breath. “I can’t make it worth your while if you cheat. Be _still_.”

“I’ll be still if you put your mouth on me again,” she says, low and purring. His cock twitches.

“It’s not a negotiation, Tess,” he says, even though that is a blatant and obvious lie, and they both know it. “But fine. If you insist.”

He’s licking chocolate off the underside of her other breast when she cants her hips again, and this time he doesn’t ignore the invitation. Slowly, he slides a hand down, rests his fingers atop the blue triangle of silk. He doesn’t move them, just cups her, barely enough pressure for her to feel it.

“Quit teasing,” she huffs, and he removes his hand, shifts it over to her hip to play idly with the strings of her thong. “Scott. That was _not_ what I meant.”

“You should be more specific,” he counters, smirking, and then tugs at the string. Her underwear slips down a scant inch.

“You fucking - ” she snaps (and he knows she’s far gone if she curses this freely). He tugs on the other side, reveals another inch of pale skin. She glares at him and then takes her own revenge by sliding one knee up, opening herself to him.

“I can’t take them off if you’re going to do that, Tess,” he says, trying valiantly to ignore the fact that she’s _right there_ , obviously wet, and wanting him. There is a Plan. (He has to keep reminding himself of that.)

“ _Fine_ ,” she snarls, and slides her knee back down with a thump against the mattress. Then she sits up, eyes blazing, yanks off her thong, and throws it across the room. “ _There_. Feel like following suit?”

“Holy fuck, Tess,” he murmurs, and slides his hands up her thighs. She trembles beneath him, and that alone sets his blood singing. He still can’t comprehend, some days, how he has this effect on her, how she wants him enough to quake under his hands. It bewilders him. Humbles him.

“Touch me,” she whispers, staring at him, and her fingers brush against his. “Please. Scott, touch me.”

“Yes,” he says, stupidly, simply; he doesn’t have room in his head for words right now. He bends his head, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of her knee, brushes his lips lightly up the expanse of her inner thigh. He slides his other hand under her ass, lifting her, and she moans softly, low in her throat.

He’s hovering at the juncture of torso and thigh, where her skin is thin and so very soft, nearly translucent so that that he thinks he can almost see the blood pumping through her veins, and suddenly he has a brilliant idea.

“Wait here,” he says abruptly, and hops up. She makes a strangled sort of sound behind him.

“What the hell - ” she says, dumbfounded. He grins to himself as he heads over to the grocery bag where it lies forgotten on the floor. He’s gotten distracted tonight, he can’t deny it. Still, he credits his superior force of will and elite mental training in that he has managed, at divers times, to actually remember his plan, and, better yet, stick to it. This is one of those times.

“Scott, what are you - ” she says, sounding rather put-out, and he rummages for the carton of strawberries very smugly.

“You keep forgetting this whole patience thing,” he remarks, and turns around, carton in hand, to find her glaring at him.

“If you tell me to be patient one more damned time...” she hisses, and then she sees what he’s carrying. “What are those for?”

“You’re about to find out,” he says, perching on the bed and skimming a hand over her knee. “I told you I was going to get supplies, you know.”

The muscles in her stomach quiver as he slides a hand up her leg, opening her to him once again.

“I wasn’t expecting... _this_ ,” she says quietly, and then he slides an experimental finger between her thighs and her voice disintegrates into a soft _ohhhhhh._

“Jesus, Tess, you’re so wet,” he says, entranced, and strokes her again. She bites her lower lip, her hips rising to meet him. Then he slips a finger inside her, and her whole body tightens.

“ _Yes_ ,” she exhales, “don’t stop.”

He adds another finger, twists them in just the way she likes, and fights the urge to fall apart as her mouth drops open in pleasure.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his thumb coming up to brush her clit, and the noise she makes is positively feral.

“ _God_ , yes, you feel so good, _please_ ,” she says rapidly, and he is damned proud of himself for making her beg before they’ve even gotten around to the main event. _Well done, Moir_ , he tells himself cheerfully.

He toys with her for a minute more before drawing his fingers away. She makes a wordless noise of protest and looks down at him in disbelief when she hears the plastic pop of the carton being opened.

“Don’t say anything yet,” he tells her as he picks out a perfectly ripe strawberry and bites down on the end. The flavour bursts bright and sweet against his tongue, the juice gushing, and he licks his lips slowly. _Perfect_.

“I’ve always wondered…” he says, conversationally, and brushes the half-eaten strawberry against the delicate skin at the top of her thigh. She gasps.

“Always wondered what?” If he’s not imagining things, her voice sounds a little higher than usual.

“Always wondered how strawberries would taste on you,” he says, and then leans down to lick away his handiwork. Tessa throws her head back against the pillows, mouth falling open. He assesses carefully, making sure that he’s cleaned away all the sticky red juice, and then takes another bite and smears the berry low on her abdomen.

When his tongue slides over her stomach, she lets loose a long, deep _ohhh_ , inhales deeply while he watches her chest rise and fall. The next bite, and he takes the plunge, very carefully slips the fruit over her core as her head snaps up in surprise.

“Okay?” he asks, checking in. They’ve done a lot, but they haven’t done _this_ particular thing before.

Her lashes flutter, and she nods. He drops the berry on the floor (he’ll end up cleaning stains out of Kate’s rug later, but at the moment he really couldn’t care less).

“Yes, keep going,” she says, and he grins and braces one forearm across her stomach, slides the other arm under her thigh.

“You said it,” he mutters, and then lowers his head again to explore her. It’s enough to make his head spin, the sweetness of the strawberry juice juxtaposed against the familiar salty taste of her. He takes his time, re-exploring all her contours and lines, his tongue mapping her out all over again. It doesn’t matter how many times he does this - every time there’s something a little different. He is a cartographer revisiting the same stretch of coast yet again, finding another inlet, another peninsula, some tiny detail that makes the entire map come newly alive.

She’s making lovely little sounds, high and dulcet, and already her hips are pushing against the barrier of his arm when he slides two fingers into her and nips for the first time at her clit. This proves to be a highly successful combination, as he knew it would.

“Oh fuck, oh Christ, Scott, _please_ , oh please, oh God,” she babbles as he crooks his fingers and twists expertly. And then she does exactly what he hoped she’d do, what she usually does - she reaches down and grabs a handful of his very recently shorn hair.

He stops everything - lifts his mouth from her, withdraws his fingers, goes completely motionless.

“Oh no you don’t,” he says accusingly, and she lifts her eyes, hazy and dilated with desire, to his.

“What?” she says dimly. “I don’t...what...I…”

He grins, wide and feral and with a whole hell of a lot of teeth.

“Uh-uh,” he says, ignoring every instinct that tells him to just get inside her already. Absolutely not. He has a _point_ to prove. “No hair-pulling. Or tugging. Nothing to do with the hair, Tessa. Not a damn thing.”

She’s still blinking at him as if not all cylinders are firing at full speed.

“But...why?” she says, plaintively. He fights the desire to give in, because Tessa sounding soft and plaintive really is his weakness. If ever he had an Achilles’ heel, it’s that voice and her crying. (Fuck, Tessa crying tears him up inside, and has consistently since she was all of seven years old.) He steels himself.

“If you didn’t appreciate the hair earlier, Tess, I think it’s very unfair that you want to pull it now,” he points out, very rationally. She makes a choked sort of noise, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing.

“What...what are you talking about?” she says finally. He pats her knee gently.

“Earlier, when you were being downright cruel about my hair,” he says, being very helpful. “When we were texting. I was wounded, Tess. Very distressed.”

She sits up on her elbows, and he does his absolute best to not notice the way her breasts sway as she props herself up. He can’t afford any distractions at this very critical juncture.

“What. The. Actual. _Hell_.”

He gives her an understanding smile.

“Yes, Tessa?”

She still seems a bit dazed, but is rapidly regaining her powers of cogency.

“You are telling me,” she says, slowly, “that you are withholding sex because I insulted your hair. Your _hair_.”

He raises an eyebrow, coolly.

“Absolutely not,” he replies. “I would never do such a thing. I’m just telling you that you can’t play with my hair if you’re going to openly critique the cut. Isn’t that what you’d call bodily autonomy or something?”

(She doesn’t know it, but he’s been sneaking peeks at one of her fourth-wave feminism books for psych class during commercials for Leafs games. And he knew - he just _knew_ \- that at some point that would come in handy.)

“I beg your pardon?”

He slides a hand down to play with her foot, and gets rewarded for his pains with her swiftly jerking her foot away, looking like she wants to kick him. Hard.

“Baby,” he says, pressing a kiss to her thigh. “I love you. And I absolutely want to have you in every way I can think of. But I really can’t let you touch my hair. Not unless…”

He trails off, artfully, feeling rather pleased with himself and only a little afraid due to the fact that Tessa is glaring daggers into the side of his face. He thinks that he can actually _feel_ her eyes, like furious little laser beams.

“Unless _what?!_ ” she practically growls at him, and her foot twitches. She definitely wants to kick him.

“Unless...maybe...well, you could compliment it,” he says, lashes fluttering, the corner of his mouth trembling with the effort it takes not to smile. “And preferably not while insisting on suspenders this time. Just...say something nice about it.”

She narrows her eyes, a mixture of rage and cold calculation.

“And if I do, you’ll go back to - ”

“I could be persuaded to, yes.” He grins broadly and slides his hand up to her hip. “So…?”

“I hate you,” she says through her teeth, and he throws back his head and laughs.

“I don’t think you really get how this whole compliment thing works, Tess,” he says, chuckling. “Wanna try it again?”

She does kick him this time, albeit lightly.

“Oww,” he says dutifully. “Here, I’ll start you off. ‘Scott, your haircut makes you look incredibly…’”

He gestures towards her, as if directing her to finish the statement. She stares at him, no glaring now, just a cool, steady stare. He tries very hard not to squirm.

“Scott,” she says finally, husky and low.

“Yes?”

“Scott... _baby_ …” she coos, and the short hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He senses danger in that sugary sweet tone.

“Uh-huh?”

“I think your hair…”

He waits, and she takes advantage of the moment to lick her lips in a way that really ought to be outlawed in every single province. It’s sinful, the way her tongue slides over the soft pink skin.

“I think your hair is...not terrible,” she says smugly, and now she’s biting her lower lip, and _fuck_ , she knows what that does to him.

“Still not a compliment, T,” he says, and hopes against hope that she doesn’t roll off the bed and stalk into the bathroom to finish herself off in the shower. He’s treading a thin line here, and he knows it.

She rises up to her knees, a little taller than him in this position, and edges forwards until she right in front of him, naked as the first day, gorgeous from head to toe, with a savage sort of light in her eyes that sends shivers down his spine.

“I think your hair…” she murmurs, and then she slides down over his lap, her thighs on either side of his hips, her hands on his shoulders.

“ _Tess_ ,” he says thickly, and now it’s her turn to grin.

“Your hair...ahhh, oh God, your hair still makes me want to fuck you till you can’t see straight,” she murmurs, the last words whispered directly into his ear. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’d want you even if you were bald.”

She slides her teeth over his earlobe, and he shudders beneath her like a man with the ague, feverish for her.

“I love your hair now,” and she speaks the words into his temple, whispers them at his jaw, “I want you so damn much, I could explode with it. I want your hands, and your mouth, I want you inside me, I want you to _take_ me…”

And that’s when he loses it, finally. He’s held it together for a truly absurd amount of time, but there’s only so much a man can take, and he’s hit his limit.

Without any warning whatsoever, he lunges forward until her back hits the mattress. She makes a surprised little _ooff_ and then, as soon as she’s caught her breath, catches the band of his boxer-briefs in her slim, clever fingers.

“Time for these to come off, I think,” she says, leaning up to nip at his jaw. He doesn’t argue, just wriggles out of them and tosses them with abandon into some corner of the room. He doesn’t have time to care where, exactly.

She reaches down to stroke him, and he stays her hand.

“Don’t, T, I’ll be lucky to last five minutes anyway,” he grits out, and she huffs out a laugh.

“You deserve it,” she says, and shifts underneath him, distractingly. “So...now that I’ve complimented the hair sufficiently, are you going to fuck me or not?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll do better than that,” he says, somehow still cocky despite the fact that 90% of his brain has stopped working, and sinks into her.

She arches up against him, throws her head back and groans deep in her throat, and that alone would be enough if he weren’t determined to make this good for her too.

“I’ve been going out of my fucking mind,” he tells her roughly as he sets a rhythm, hard and fast and apparently exactly what she wants, judging from the way she wraps her legs around his waist and digs her heels into his ass.

“And whose fault is _that?_ ” she hisses, and bites his shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise.

“Ah, shit, don’t _do_ that, Tess, I don’t wanna - ” he grits out, and she leans her head back and shoots him a positively lewd look.

“ _I_ wasn’t the one who brought strawberries and chocolate and God knows what else to torment you,” she gasps out, meeting him thrust for thrust. “You. Deserve. It.”

“I was _wounded_ ,” he mutters petulantly. “I had to - ahhh - get back at you somehow.”

She gives him a look that is part exasperation and part fondness (and mostly pure lust), and then pushes down on his shoulders. He slides down as best he can and waits for her to do what he knows she’s planning, and he’s not disappointed - in about three seconds her legs are draped over his shoulders, the angle has completely changed, and he feels like the top of his head is probably going to explode.

“Jesus, T, I’m close, I’m so fucking close,” he grits out between clenched teeth, and is infinitely grateful when she shudders hard and gasps out _me too._

And then she delivers the _coup de grâce_. He really should’ve seen it coming, honestly, given how the night has gone, given what a fuss he put up about it, but he doesn’t. And so, when she slides her hands into his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and _tugs_ , he can’t stop himself.

“Oh God, Tess, Tessa, holy _fuck_ , I’m - ”

And then he’s lost, hips stuttering against hers, his brain a whirl of white noise and strawberries and Tessa, clenching around him, a high fluttering cry ringing in his ears and then nothingness, a sated floating sort of peace high above _terra firma_ , where it’s just him and Tess and everything else fades away.

When he comes back down, she’s gently nudging him in the shoulder blade with her heel.

“Move, please, this is not exactly comfy,” she says primly, and he stifles a chuckle as he shifts off of her and rolls to the side. Tessa Virtue is the literally the only person he’s ever known to use the word “comfy” right after screwing his everloving last brain cell out of his head.

“Thank you,” she says, and curls up against him. Despite the fact that he feels utterly boneless, he slides an arm around her and pulls her closer until she’s in his favourite spot, snuggled up against his chest, her head in the slight hollow between his shoulder and collarbone. He sighs and breathes her in deeply, sweat and strawberry shampoo and a tiny bit of vetiver.

“I love you,” he mumbles into her hair. “Even when you mock me, Virtue. Still love you.”

She huffs sleepily, and he can feel her smile against his skin.

“So sensitive,” she says softly, and lightly pinches right above his navel. He swats at her ineffectually.

“Besides…” she raises up to one elbow, ignoring the way he frowns in protest. “You got me worked up on purpose beforehand, with your strawberries and your chocolate sauce and all. Very sneaky there, Moir.”

He grins despite his lassitude.

“Glad you picked up on that,” he says. “I thought it was a fairly good plan myself.”

“Uh-huh,” she says drily. “I’ll just bet you did. Not that it didn’t work out well for you.”

He pulls her back to down him, rests his chin on the top of her head.

“Tess?” he hums, stroking a hand slowly down her back. She cuddles a bit closer, and he leans down to kiss the part of her hair.

“Yeah?” She sounds a little groggy, the way she usually does after a particularly athletic round, and he knows she’s about a minute or so away from sleep. He’s fine with that, really - he could use some rest, too. But he’d kind of like to whet her appetite for later...so to speak.

“I just thought you might wanna know…” he starts, and pauses for effect. She shifts her head against him, blinks up sleepily.

“Know what?”

“That’s not all I had in the bag.”

And when her eyes fly open and she sits up in surprise, looking over at the plain paper grocery bag like it’s the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, he can’t help but shout with laughter, no matter how sleepy he is.

“We got time, Tess,” he tells her, and hauls her back down to curl up against him, drifts kisses across her face, finding constellations in her freckles. She sighs and slides her arm over him, anchoring herself, and slips her leg between his.

“Plenty of time,” she concurs, a note of intrigue in her voice, and as he drifts off, one hand in Tessa’s hair, he realises something hazily that probably should’ve occurred to him hours ago in the grocery store.

_Two can play at this game_.

The next eight hours or so are going to be _so_ damned good.


End file.
